


Tourment De Deux

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Claude shows up to help Felix with emotions, Depression, Felix can't handle grief, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, I'll mark it so you can skip it, M/M, Oops, POV Third Person Omniscient, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sylvain is dead, also graphic depiction of injuries, but not actually, lowkey suicidal thoughts?, no beta we die like men, they think he's dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Three days later, they were forced to return to Garreg Mach, and Sylvain’s named was officially added to the list of the missing.There was nothing of him to grieve.OrSylvain dies at Gronder, and Felix is left to pick up the pieces. That is until they take Fort Merceus, and find more there than simply the path to Enbarr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been thinking about this for a couple days, and got really bored this morning. I hope you enjoy this! The first chapter is kinda of like a prologue, because I didn't want to skip any of it, but didn't think it deserved it's own chapter. This first chapter is 100% angst, so sorry about that. Anyways I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Also, I don't have a beta, so if you spot any glaring errors I missed, let me know!

Ingrid had seen Felix grieve. 

Saw him refuse to eat for days, wasting away until he finally, _ finally _ got up to train. It had been Sylvain to pull him from the depths of his grief, who handed him a sword and said "Fight me." Who convinced him that there was still something left to fight _ for _.

Maybe that was why this was so much worse.

They buried Rodrigue with the few soldiers they could, on a patch of land far enough away from the horrors of the battlefield. It would prove too difficult to bring them home, but at least they were buried. At least their bodies weren’t left to rot on the fields of a battle they didn’t win. At least they weren’t left behind, like far too many of their dead.

Like Sylvain.

It was Ingrid, too, who saw him fall.

At first, she didn't realize what she was seeing. _ Who _ she was seeing. She was too far away, the smoke and chaos too difficult to see through. Black armour with a black horse could have been anyone. _ It could have been. _ It wasn't.

The healers were too far away to help, the line was collapsing, Edelgard was slipping away as her army pressed on. The battalion was lost, there was nothing she could do. Had she known, would she have acted any differently? Could she have? Would she have saved him? Died herself?

Their army called their retreat, and Ingrid pulled back with the rest of the survivors.

The hour or so after battle was always chaotic. In some ways, even more so than the battle itself. The healers helped those they could, grieved those they couldn’t, and moved on to the next. Friends searched for friends, desperate to know if they made it out. 

The former students were scattered across the camp, tending to their respective duties. A few gathered in time to see Rodrigue take a blade meant for Dimitri, but enough weren’t that it wasn’t cause for alarm. Usually, the Professor would track them all down. Usually, they hadn’t just lost one of the Kingdom’s greatest men. Everything else was forgotten in the aftermath.

It was Mercedes who found out first.

She was with the healers, trying to save as many as she could, when a soldier was brought in. He begged for one of the generals, his comrades begged for a healer. Mercedes was both.

The man was in bad shape, blood and broken bones. Internal bleeding. She recognized his uniform as a member of Sylvain’s battalion.

He rambled, begging the goddess for mercy, apologizing for his failure, apologizing for Sylvain.

The man died, there was nothing she could do.

Desperation drove her to the Professor, who turned to the rest of the camp. She accounted for every one of her students, other than Sylvain. 

It was only then that Ingrid realized what she’d seen. 

Felix didn’t take the news well. By what must have been divine intervention, they convinced him not to turn back to the battlefield, but that didn’t stop his denial, nor his rage. Wisely, they kept Dimitri away from him, gave him the space they thought he’d need.

His anger got him as far as the tent he shared with Sylvain, where in private he fell apart.

Three days later, they were forced to return to Garreg Mach, and Sylvain’s named was officially added to the list of the missing.

There was nothing of him to grieve.

* * *

War is cruel, Felix always knew this, but there was little crueler than having no time to mourn. 

It was as if part of him died on that battlefield too, as if the wound where his heart should have been was left to fester and rot. As if every step he took was walking on shattered glass, feet bleeding but unable to stop.

At night, he dreamed of battle, of Sylvain. Saw him lying on the ground, blood covering his armour, pleading. Dreamed he was lost in the darkness, he had to find Sylvain, _ had to _. Something was wrong, why wasn’t he there? He was drowning, he needed Sylvain, he needed -

It was always worse when he woke up, the name on his lips belonging to a dead man. 

Eventually, he did he best to stop sleeping.

The dining room was too noisy, too full of friends and their condolences. Their _ “are you okay” _ s, and _ “you don’t look well” _s. Too many people watched him with pity. The food made him sick anyways, he used to eat it with Sylvain.

After the third time he throws up, he decided that he didn’t need food.

He trained, putting everything he is, everything he ever was, into finding away to end this, because if Sylvain was dead (he isn’t, a part of him argued, he can’t be) then there was nothing left but this conflict. Nothing to live for but being the one to put a sword through Edelgard himself. He wanted her dead even more than Dimitri, since his grief turned him back to rationality.

His friends tried to help. Ingrid brings him food, doesn’t frown when she finds it uneaten even though she wanted too.

“You’re not the only one grieving,” she told him once. “We all miss him.”

He ignored her, because they didn’t. They didn’t even _ know _ him. They saw the person Sylvain wanted them to see, not who he really was. 

As their sights turned to Fhiardiad, and thus, Arianrhod, Felix tried, desperately, to keep himself together - to keep from falling apart.

He made risky decisions in combat, went against orders to follow what he wanted. It was selfish, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was winning, no matter the cost. After all, his cost had already been paid.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” Dimitri yelled at him, after they took back Fhiardiad. Rodrigue would have loved to see the day. Too bad he was dead as well.

Felix only shrugged, not gracing the question (or scolding) with a verbal answer. He didn’t have to, king or no, he didn’t owe the boar anything. Besides, so what if he died? There was nothing to live for anyways.

He wished he could walk away, but the injury he received from the - what had it been again? A Titanus? - kept him bedridden until the healers could regain enough power to heal him properly. Mercedes had been horrified when she got a good look at him, told him he would be forced into bed rest until he was healthy again, until he ate enough to regain his strength. 

Felix wasn’t sure he deserved that.

The return to Garreg Mach was far more joyous than the previous time. They had won, Faergus was returned to its proper monarch. 

Sylvain was still gone.

Felix had never been a particularly religious man. He believed in the goddess - how could he not, with their professor who she was - believed in the teachings of Seiros, the warrior she was, but he did not pray. Stopped doing so long before war raged across Fodlan, long before he lost himself. He does then, when the depths of the night pulled him from his training. He found his way to the cathedral, stood in front of the ruins that felt so much like his heart, and prayed.

Prayed because Sylvain, as much as he denied it, always believed in the Goddess. Always whispered hymns taught since childhood before bed. Could name the saints and their stories by heart.

Felix prayed, because there was no power in the world that could bring the lost parts of him back, that could bring _ Sylvain _ back, aside from maybe the Goddess. 

Claude’s plea came as a surprise, and then they were off to save Derdriu. Somehow, they managed it. Claude planned to leave, and Felix wondered if he had ever wanted to be a ruler in the first place. The alliance was no more, but they at least gain the lords’ military support.

“Felix?” Claude came up behind him, as he sat staring at the water. It was late, long past midnight. After that day, most people were asleep. Claude should have been asleep as well.

The water lapped at the docks, moving gently with the tide. Would anybody miss him if he threw himself in? Would his death finally end the agony he felt? 

Even two months later, it still felt as if he was forced to walk the Valley of Torment until the end of time.

He didn’t reply to Claude. Didn’t even look up.

The other sat next to him, letting the silence multiply between them. Whatever reason he had for seeking him out, Felix didn’t care.

“I know you’re tired of hearing this,” he said, “but I am sorry.”

Claude was right. He was tired of hearing it.

“Your friends mentioned that you’re struggling,” he continued, “and honestly? I can’t blame you.”

That drew Felix’s attention. Claude was leaning back on his hands, watching the stars above them. 

“Why are you here Claude?” he asked sharply. 

The other sat up straight, and let his eyes meet Felix’s. “I know how you felt about Sylvain. I know you didn’t want to admit it, you probably still don’t, but Felix,” his gaze was intense. “It’s okay that you loved him; that you still love him.”

He wanted to say something, anything. Wanted to deny it, snap at him, storm off. He couldn’t. Not when the feeling of grief was bubbling up inside him. Not when his entire world felt like a kaleidoscope, twisting and turning, reflecting emotions that he never wanted to feel. It tugged at him. It felt like he would bleed to death from the pain of it all, the dagger still plunged in his heart. The way it felt like Sylvain was dying, over and over, piece by piece. 

How could he put any of that into words?

Claude was looking at him like he was staring into his soul. How many people had he lost?

“It feels like I’m dying,” he admitted. “It feels like everything that ever held me here, every reason I ever had to live, is gone.”

With the words, the feeling came rushing in. The burden that he had been trying to starve off for so long. For the first time in two months, Felix cried.

“Every time I wake up, I have this terrible moment of clarity, this moment before the ugly reality of the world comes crashing back down and I remember he’s gone.”

“You’ll win this,” Claude assured him, “you’ll end this war, and end the loss with it.”

“That won’t bring him back,” he argued, half out of his mind with grief.

Claude put a hand on his shoulder. There was no shame in his eyes, not even pity. 

“No,” he agreed. “And I won’t say the hurt will end. If I know anything, it probably won’t, but peace will give us a chance to remember them, to carry them with us.” He sighed, looking back at the sky. “My father once told me that as long as a name is spoken, they never really die. Don’t make an enemy of the world Felix. Find a space within it, create one if you have to., to remember him. To remember them all.”

He stood, and left Felix to his thoughts, and tears.

Claude was gone come morning.

* * *

The conversation didn’t end his grief. It didn’t stop the feeling of broken glass, or a storm swirling inside him.

It did, however, help him process the realization he had been running from for years. He loved Sylvain. The stupid, skirt chasing, brave, dead, idiot. With that knowledge, came an entirely different kind of grief. The loss of something that could have been, but never was.

If he had done something different. If he had told Sylvain before, maybe he would still be there.

By the time they made it back to Garreg Mach, ready to plan their invasion into the Empire, Felix had settled into a completely different routine.

Most days, he was not found in the training yard, but the cathedral. Praying, begging. He would do anything, _ anything _, to get Sylvain back. He would trade himself in a heartbeat. 

Mercedes took to sitting with him, Ashe too when they realized he wouldn’t push them away. Others came to sit with him too, convince him to eat or train. He always came back.

“I love him,” he whispered once, into the dark of the night.

“I know,” Ingrid replied, the chill of the night seeping into through the ruins. “I know you do.”

Three months after the Battle of Gronder, three months after Felix lost the only thing he loved, the Kingdom Army started the attack on Fort Mercues.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, hi, there's a few lines of graphic descriptions of injuries in here. I have *** before and after so you can skip that small bit if you want to.
> 
> I should probably wait to post this, but I don't want to, so here you are.

The fight to take back Mercues had gone well, better than they could have hoped for considering the odds. The losses were few, and their gains were great. 

Like every battle, more former students were dead, although Caspar seemed to take his defeat in stride. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I really am.” Nobody quite knew what he was apologizing for. Maybe everything. 

Byleth was once again reminded that war was cruel.

In the few hours since they took the Fort, they had managed to settle some, and arguably more importantly, found the prison. Or dungeon, rather.

Nobody entered beyond a scout, to check for enemies, until she arrived. Various keys had been collected from bodies, and what few healers could be spared were gathered, ready to face what was to come.

As a group, they descended.

Torches lined the wall of both the stairs, and the prison, throwing everything into a dim light, warping the space with shadows. The damp penetrated their clothing, with the distinctive temperature of being beneath the ground. It smelled of bile, piss, and the tang of iron she knew to be blood. 

The room was larger than she thought it would be, with multiple cells lining the sides. This wasn’t meant to hold a couple prisoners, but several. Likely political. 

People looked up as they entered, those that could at least. There were nine of them, although Byleth suspected many were nothing but bodies now. 

She lingered by the exit, too exhausted to actively engage in the freedom of its inhabitants. Her men scrambled to unlock doors and shackles. Healers moved to help those they weren't too late for. 

"Goddess, it can't be..." she heard a soldier say as they unlocked one of the far cells. "Professor," they called, frozen in shock.

She wanted to sigh, exhaustion pulled at her. Surely whatever was wrong could be handled by others, but no. She was here. It would be Dimitri, were he not preoccupied. 

The closer she got, she began to smell what she had learned to be festering wounds. Whoever this soul was, they were not long for this world.

* * *

Mercedes was with the rest of the healers, as she usually was, when a messenger found her. 

“They need you at the prison Milady,” the young man said, bowing slightly. It was a little amusing, and a little annoying, that nobody was quite sure how to address her, the same with the other common born of the professor’s students.

She followed the man, boy really, to the prison, her bag of healing items in hand. Whatever this was, it would need to be big for the professor to call her specifically.

The dim room was crowded with people, healers attempting to get prisoners back on their feet so they could be moved elsewhere, bodies being piled to one sad.

She spotted the professors mint hair in a cell near the back, a few soldiers she knew to be healers surrounding her.

“We can’t do anything until we get him out of here,” she heard one say. Maria perhaps? 

“He’s septic,” another said.

“It’s too dangerous to move him now,” the Professor explained.

“Excuse me,” Mercedes said as she moved through the few surrounding the cell. “Professor?”

Byleth was on the ground, holding a person across her legs. They were naked from the waist up, blood and pus leaking from a series of badly infected wounds across their back.

It wasn’t until she got closer that the bright red hair, dulled with dirt and blood, registered in her mind.

“Oh Goddess,” she said softly, dropping to her knees next to the man. “Sylvain?” Her voice shook, as she reached out, magic already called to her fingertips. It was him, she was sure of it. Oh Goddess he looked terrible.

She had to clean him before she could properly heal him, but he was in such a delicate state. Carefully, Mercedes took bandages from her kit. 

“I'll wrap the wounds, but I can’t do anything else until I close them, which can’t be done until I clean them.” Magic was useful, but not all powerful. She needed to clean the wounds, perhaps lance them. 

The professor nodded, and the healers helped them shift and wrap Sylvain’s torso. 

“Don’t tell anybody about this,” the professor told the room. “That is an order, understand?” after affirmation, she turned to Mercedes. Much more quietly she asked, “Can you save him?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, repacking her back. A couple of soldiers were sent to retrieve a stretcher and blankets. 

They moved him carefully, although even unconscious, he still made sounds of pain. It was terrible. 

Only when she got him into a well lit room, what used to be the infirmary for the fort (they had moved their medical centre outside, where more healers could come and go), did Mercedes see what she was working with. 

His skin was pale and ashy under the blood and dirt. A fever raged through him, although the heat only radiated off his core. His arms and legs were mottled and cold, a sign that his heart wasn’t pumping blood properly. His breathing was quick and shallow. He was dying, that much was plain. Of all the healing Mercedes knew, she wasn’t sure if there was anything she could do. Goddess he was so skinny. He’d always been slight, but never so much as to see each bone in his body, far too many of them broken and healing wrong. Was there even enough of him to fight this off?

She had to try.

The wounds on his back took precedence, since the infection was the root of the problem. After that, she could work on his heart, try to force it into pumping more blood. Oh Goddess, please.

“It’s okay Sylvain,” she told him as she piled blankets on top of him. “You’re safe.”

An assistant healer, a student really, brought her a bowl of warm water and clean rags. This child shouldn’t be learning this in a war, she thought.

Carefully as she could, Mercedes positioned Sylvain so she had access to his back, and the wounds that covered it. The blankets remained covering his legs.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke softly, “I know it hurts.”

***

The gashes were criss crossed, some half healed when others were opened over top. The edges were bright red and inflamed, hot to the touch. The wounds themselves were covered in blisters, some leaking pus, although there was one in particular that concerned her. 

It leaked a grey, foul smelling liquid, and even unconscious, touching the area caused a moan of pain from Sylvain. The tissue was  necrotizing, a condition that could kill him within hours if she wasn’t careful.

***

Honestly, she was a little surprised he wasn’t dead already. She pushed that thought aside, she had to focus.

“It’ll be okay Sylvain,” she lied as she dabbed the damp rag at his skin. The water in the bowl quickly turned a muddy red.

When Flayn finally arrived, Mercedes explained what had to be done. 

“The wound is necrotizing. We need to keep it from spreading.” She nodded, apparently already aware of what that entailed. 

“I’ll find disinfectant and something sharp.”

They worked together, each cringing at the cries of pain, as they cut away the diseased flesh. It would scar, badly, but at least it wouldn’t spread. Even between them, they didn’t have the magic to heal it, and leaving it would cause death before they got the chance.

The wound was larger than any other, but they managed to stitch it together. Alcohol disinfected it, while magical salves would help it heal faster. They packed it with cotton gauze, but couldn’t bandage it properly until the rest were finished.

Together they lanced blisters and stitched mangled flesh as best they could, like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle of blood and muscle, what little he of it had left.

His wrists were chafed and blistered from shackles, but at least they were easier to deal with. Same salve and bandages, the only worry was the lack of blood to heal it.

Hours of careful work later, and they were able to bandage his beaten body. Flayn eased his pain as best she could, while Mercedes fought the infection already in his system, trying to take the burden off his heart, and push his blood back out to his externalities. They didn’t have enough magic.

HIs bones were broken, healed wrong, but nothing could be done about that until he was in a better state. The shock of rebreaking and setting them would be too much of a strain. She wrapped a bandage around each of his hands, frowning at the cold touch and purple fingers.. They wouldn’t do anything to help that shattered bones, but it would at least provide some comfort to those who may want to hold them gently.

The blankets were repositioned over him, an attempt to retain any warmth in his limbs, and perhaps increased blood flow to them. Tissue could die without enough oxygen, and an amputation would be terrible.

They’d done all they could, all that was left was to ease his pain, change bandages as needed, and pray.

“They tortured him,” Flayn whispered, as if saying it too loudly would make it true. Would make the last few horrible hours real.

It hit Mercedes, all at once. This was Sylvain. The man they thought was dead, the man they  _ grieved _ . They’d abandoned him to this fate, this torment. 

She was exhausted, physically, magically, and emotionally. Tears were threatening to spill as her mind tried to process what had been pushed aside while caring for her patient. 

“Yes,” she replied, equally as quiet. “They did.”

* * *

The stars at Fort Merceus were different than those at Derdriu, not massively so, but subtly. They were a country away after all, close enough to Enbar for this to end soon, one way or another. They had to pass by Gronder to get there, and Felix wasn’t sure he could go on when they did.

Three months. Would the bodies still be there? How decayed would they be? Could they find him? Bury him? There wasn’t time, but Felix still promised himself he would, one day. When they stopped for the night, he visited his father’s grave. Unmarked aside from a pile of stones and branches. A piece of wood stuck out from the ground, the symbol of House Fraldarius carved into one side. He wondered who had made it, perhaps a soldier from home. He’d have to thank them.

He’d sat on the ground in front of it, and just watched. There was nothing to say, no words. He didn’t grieve his father, didn’t have room to process the loss so minor in comparison. Maybe, when this was all over, he’d have a monument created. One with the names of all those who died, and all those who were missing. A place to remember those they lost. 

He didn’t venture into the battlefield.

They continued on the next day, nobody wanting to linger in a place plagued by so much loss. Felix didn’t believe in ghosts, but if there was ever a place haunted, he figured it would be Gronder Fields. 

They battled at Fort Mercues, and somehow they won. The professor killed the Death Knight, who did turn out to be Jeritza. They were so close, the end was within reach. He hoped it would give him closure, but he doubted it would. Not when the one that mattered was still dead.

He stood atop the battlements, watching the Kingdom Army mill about below him, some were lucky enough to reside within the fort, although mostly it was for people like him. Generals who needed a space to plan their next attack.

The professor was somewhere, dealing with whatever it was she was had come up. Probably whatever mess what occured in the prison earlier, he hadn’t bothered to question. 

Maybe Sylvain was the lucky one, he thought. Dying was easy, it was living without him that was hard, impossible even.

“Felix!” Ingrid shouted, running towards him.

What was wrong now? Couldn’t they just leave him be.

“Felix,” she said when she was more within hearing range, she was panting. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

He almost didn’t reply to her, almost ignored her entirely. Almost threw himself to the ground below.

“What do you want?” hesnapped instead. There was still a war to be won, whatever came after would come then. Besides, if he were lucky, he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Would they have a body to bury for him?

“Sylvain,” the word tore from her throat, as if attacking his soul. “They found Sylvain.”

He tried to process her words, tried to understand what she was saying. He didn’t.

“What do you mean they found Sylvain?” he growled, desperate, pleading, sending every silent prayer he could think of to the Goddess. Found his body? Found  _ him _ ? Please, he thought. Please don’t give me hope.

“He isn’t dead,” she gasped the words, apparently just as desperate at him. “He’s injured, badly, but alive. I had to find you, I had to tell you.”

He’s alive.

Felix wasn’t sure why part of him was suddenly ripped away.

“Where?” his mouth was dry. Fear pulsed through him, so similar to grief, yet different. He was scared, terrified, that this wasn’t true.

“He was imprisoned. He’s with Mercedes and Flayn in the old infirmary right now. They won’t let anybody see him, but the Professor may let you.”

How can a person explain what this felt like? When they grieved, so long and so hard, only to find out they were wrong. Was this hope? Guilt? Terror? Why did it feel like he was dying?

His legs were taking him there before his mind could process. Ingrid followed, directing him when she could through the unfamiliar area.

The guards wouldn’t let them in, refused to confirm it was him, but Felix had to know, he  _ had  _ to. The desperation was like nothing he had felt since that first day, the weakness, the feelings of being so small, powerless. Blades would have been drawn had the professor not opened the door behind the two. 

She looked exhausted, her clothing still splotched with blood from the battle much earlier that day.

She didn’t say a word, just nodded them in as she passed, heading towards where Felix figured Dimitri would be. He didn’t care for battle planning.

The room was well lit, with spells and torches.it smelled of healing and medicinal herbs. The girls, and their young assistant, were sitting around a small table, drinking what looked to be tea. Curtains were drawn around what was probably a bed in the far corner, several more beds were unoccupied, although it seemed they soon would be filled by the healers. 

Mercedes looked up first, obviously exhausted. She had fought today, and then healed, and then done this.

“Felix,” she said, drawing his attention. She put her mug on the table. “It’s good you’re here.” It was. There was a large chance Sylvain wouldn’t survive the night. Perhaps Felix could provide some comfort they couldn’t. Perhaps saying goodbye could give him closure. 

She spoke to him softly, like he was a wild animal.

Maybe he was. Maybe he was just as wild as the Boar Prince turned King. He found he didn’t care.

She stood as he took a step towards the curtains. Hesitant and protective, even exhausted as she was.

“Then let me see him,” he growled, feeling once again like everything was crashing down around him. It was like a hurricane. He needed to find the center, find peace, he needed-

“Felix, breathe,” he opened his eyes to her hand on his shoulder. When had he closed them? His heart thundered in his ears. He had to see Sylvain, he had to know. “You’re having a panic attack, I need you to calm down.” Her voice was soft, reassuring. 

He shook his head, breathing far too quickly. “I can’t, I need-”

“You can see him,” she said softly, “but I need you to listen.”

He tried his best. Let Ingrid pull him towards a bed and sit down, let his head fall between his knees. Breathe. In and out. Breathe.

“Is he okay?” Ingrid asked, a grounding hand on Felix. She was just as desperate as him. 

“Unfortunately, not,” she answered softly. “He was injured during his time here, and was provided very little healing and medical care.”

“What does that mean?” Felix was surprised by the desperation in his own voice, even if it reflected what he felt. 

His mind was still reeling, still unable to process this new knowledge, after so long of dealing with the opposite. 

Mercedes explained the best she could. His injuries without being too graphic, what it meant without mentioning torture - as per the professor’s request-, his prognosis. 

“We’re doing our best to keep him comfortable,” Flayn added sadly. “But we’ve done all we can to prolong his life.”

Felix wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for Sylvain to be alive, only with the possibility to die again. How could a person deal with that? He remembered Claude, remembered his quiet admission to Ingrid. He couldn’t  _ lose _ him, not so soon after finding hope, after feeling something again.

The moment he saw Sylvain, the moment his brain reasoned that yes, he was there, he was alive. He was hurt, they left him to his fate, abandoned him, grieved him, Felix broke down.

Ugly tears took over as he took the chair closest to Sylvain, fell into it and sobbed.

It had been three months, the worst three months of Felix’s life. Worse than the weeks following Glenn’s death. Every emotion he couldn’t process, every bit of grief and fear and guilt came pouring out at once as he sobbed. He reached for Sylvain’s hand, hidden under piles of blankets, and held it softly. It was cold, felt lifeless, the tips of his fingers purple with lack of oxygen. He pressed it to his lips, and shuddered with grief. 

He’d prayed more times than he could count, and here Sylvain was. He was injured, may not survive, but Felix knew he would, he had to. He couldn’t grieve him twice.

For what he hoped would be the last time, Felix prayed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that shorter chapter!

By some miracle, Sylvain survived the night. Maybe it was divine intervention, after all the prayers she had heard Felix whisper in the darkness of the Cathedral.

He was still in bad shape, but the longer he survived the better his odds became.

She had wanted to sleep in shifts, so that either her or Flayn would be awake if something went wrong, but Ingrid managed to convince them otherwise. She promised either her or Felix would wake them up if anything changed. They slept in the infirmary, just in case. When morning pulled her from unconsciousness, she figured it was probably a good idea. They’d needed the sleep.

Exhaustion still weighed on her, but not nearly as bad as it had before. She could actually do some solid work.

Ingrid and Felix were still awake. Goddess it must have been more than a day since they slept. Felix looked terrible, his hands wrapped around one of Sylvain’s, gently rubbing the back of it. Mercedes honestly wasn’t sure if he’d deny it as to not cause pain, were any of them to bring it tup. At one point he wouldn’t have been caught dead acting so gentle, but that was before Sylvain died. How would things change now?

“Ingrid,” Mercedes said as she looked over Sylvain. His complexion was still ashy, but, was she imagining it or was his breathing steadier? “Could you get breakfast? I need to change his bandages.” There wasn’t any point telling Felix to leave, she knew he wouldn’t. Besides, she imagined Sylvain would want him there too.

“Of course,” Ingrid replied, taking the hint, as barely concealed as it was. Unhealed wounds was never something she wanted to see, let alone some so horrid. Besides, they  _ did  _ need food.

She waited until Ingrid left to sit next to Felix. She assumed the rest of the former Blue Lions would be by to visit soon.

“How has he been?” she asked softly, hoping to pull Felix from whatever introspection was spiraling within his mind. They’d have to keep a watchful eye on him. If it was overwhelming for her, it must have been far worse for him.

Felix looked up at her blinking in surprise as if he hadn’t noticed her before she spoke. His hair was a mess, half fallen out of his usual ponytail. Goddess, he was exhausted, even more so than Ingrid. He hadn’t slept well in months, it must have really been catching up with him.

“Nothing’s changed,” his hands looked like they wanted to tighten on Sylvain's, but he was forcing them not to. Of all his broken bones, they would have to be healed first, if he ever wanted to wield a lance again. There was still a high chance he’d never be able to, which was probably the goal in the first place.

She let her magic filter over Sylvain, seeking any changes. Behind them, she was vaguely aware of Flayn waking up. Sure enough, his breathing was easier if only just. It was a good sign. The infection still clawed at him, fever still high, and heart still strained, but it was a start.

She checked his skin. It was still mottled, but red instead of purple. He’d have a chance then, better than the night before. If they could get some solid healing in quickly, he’d probably survive. Probably.

“I do need to change his bandages,” she told Felix, knowing he hadn’t heard her speaking to Ingrid. He seemed distracted, a trait he’d never displayed before. He always prided himself on his ability to remain focused on whatever task at hand. It must have been immense difficult for him.

He nodded vaguely, eyes still watching Sylvain’s unconscious face. 

Flayn came up behind her, and the two set about gathering the supplies they’d need to reclean, and rebandage the injuries. 

They started on his wrists. The salve had done wonders for the chafed and blistered skin, although they would likely still scar. There was nothing to be done about it.

As they shifted and unwound the bandages from his torso, Mercedes noticed a scar down his side she had missed previously. It was healed, but new. Likely the result of whatever injury took him down in the first place. They’d healed it. They propsefully kept him alive, so they could torture him.

Oh Goddess she needed a moment. Breathing, and counting to ten, Mercedes kept unwinding the bandages.

The salve worked as well as expected, helping to speed the healing and fight infection. The edges of the wounds weren’t nearly as red and inflamed as the day before. It would still take time for them to heal completely, but at least it was a start.

Carefully, she dabbed the damp rag against his skin, cleaning as gently as possible. 

Felix was whispering to Sylvain, or perhaps praying, either way Mercedes was glad. It was commonly known that even unconscious, people could still pick up on sounds and voices. Having a loved one nearby, speaking to them, could help a person recover faster. 

What she was even more thankful for, was that Sylvain was unconscious for the process. Had he been awake, it likely would have been agonizing. 

Once again, both Mercedes and Flayn healed the injuries, before resalving and wrapping them in fresh bandages. Flayn had thankfully caught internal bleeding the night before, and fixed it before it became a problem. That left taxing but simple work.

Flayn attempted to strip the infection from his body, working bit by bit as Mercedes continued strengthening his heart and organs. As soon as his blood was moving properly again, and thus the poisons being filtered from it, Sylvain would be in a much better position.

They broke for food when Ingrid came back, and greeted Dimitri who accompanied her. She even managed to coax some food into Felix, which seemed to be the second miracle of the day.

* * *

Felix had never had a weak stomach. He’d never thrown up in battle, no matter how terrible burning corpses were, how gruesome the death, never felt nauseous at the scent of decay. There was something, however, about seeing Sylvain’s injuries first hand that made him ill.

Maybe it was the knowledge of how painful they must have been, or how they caused the infection ravaging his system, increasing his likelihood of mortality exponentially. Although it was probably that he was, well,  _ Sylvain _ . Still, he stuck it out. He held Sylvain’s hand and whispered quiet reinforcements. 

“You’re safe” “It’s okay” “I’m here”

It had been the professor who wrote the letter to Sylvain’s father, three months ago. Felix wanted to, but could’;t bring himself to do it, not when the news of his own father’s death would also be arriving. He wondered, would Dimitri do it this time? Tell the grieving Margrave that his son was alive?

White magic filled the room as he watched Sylvain’s unconscious features. Part of him expected hazel eyes to blink up at him, a cocky smile and an assurance that he was fine, why was Felix even worrying so much?

He tried not to be disappointed when it didn’t happen.

Sylvain had been unconscious when they found him, it made sense that he wouldn’t magically wake up because Felix wanted him to. When had he turned into such a blushing maiden anyways? Wanting some fantasy that wasn’t real, and never would be.

Mercedes was optimistic about his prognosis though, which Felix supposed was good. It wasn’t like she’d be happy if he was dying.

They pestered him about eating until he finally agreed to have some porridge. It tasted bland, which was better than sweet, although still not good. War rations were terrible. He couldn’t wait for it to end.

Other former classmates came and went as the day went on, Ashe smiling brighter than he had in months when he saw Sylvain. Annette looked like she was about ready to cry. Dedue and Dimitri brought lunch. He drew the line at being forced to eat dried meat.

The Professor stopped by in the early afternoon.

She looked unhappy, well, as much as she looked like anything. Although he know from her eyes that she hadn’t slept much the previous night either.

“I need to talk to you three,” she said, glancing at himself, Mercedes, and Flayn. “How is he?”

They glanced at one another, before standing. 

“Better,” Mercedes replied. “His breathing and heart rate have improved.”

She nodded, leaning against a wall as she looked them over. “I’ve spent all morning going over maps and battle plans.” Nobody replied, instead waiting for her to continue. “We have to leave in four days. If we wait any longer, reinforcements will arrive from the north. More imperial soldiers mean more casualties, on both sides.” She nodded towards Sylvain. “When will he be able to be moved?”

Mercedes and Flayn shared a look. 

“I am afraid we will have to confer on that,” Flayn explained. “It is possible that we will not know until his condition improves.”

The professor nodded in understanding, before turning her attention to Felix. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he replied, turning his attention away from Sylvain.

“Will you be able to fight?” 

He knew why she was asking, but he still felt anger bubbling within him. “Of course, you’re stupid if you think anything else.” Was he not aloud a single day of reprieve?

He’d take today off, and go back to training the next. He just needed to be with Sylvain.

“Alright. Keep me posted,” she told Mercedes and Flayn. To all of them she reminded, “Be ready to march for Enbarr in four days.”

Four days. One way or another, the war would be over.

“Fe..” a soft voice said from behind him. 

Sylvain’s face was scrunched. 

“Fe...lix.”

Mercedes was by his side before Felix’s mind had even fully processed what was happening. Sylvain was calling for  _ him _ ?

“Felix,” she called, pulling his attention. 

He blinked, before rushing back to Sylvain’s side. He’d spend the entire night there, why was he so nervous about it now?

“Fe...lix,” Sylvain called again. His voice was gravelly and wrong.

“I’m here,” he replied, taking his hand once again. “Hush now, I’m here.”

Maybe he could hear him, or maybe he just slipped back into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Whatever was the answer, he quieted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain wakes up, kind of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all ready for some PTSD because man, that's coming up. How many chapters are going to be in this story? Who knows! Certainly not me.

Everything hurt.

He was curled up in the corner of his cell, vaguely aware of the fevered chills tearing through his body. Whispers echoed across the walls, he couldn’t make out the words beyond his quick, harsh breaths. Were they real? He didn’t know. Didn’t think it mattered, anyways.

He, Sylvain Gautier, was dying.

Really, he should have been more concerned about that fact. But after months (had it been months? He didn't know) of torment, he wasn't sure he minded all that much. 

Fuck, what a depressing thought.

He tried to hold on, really did. Even through all their torture, he still didn't break ( _ Goddess give me strength, he prayed, desperate to hold on just a little bit longer).  _

At first, Sylvain was so sure they would come for him. How could they not? Dimitri was crazy, yeah, but everybody else would fight for him back. He counted the days, by rations and guard rotations, until he realized they were keeping them inconsistent. He wasn’t sure how long after that he gave up hope.

Sylvain shivered. It was freezing, always damp and cold, leaking off the walls. Part of him wanted to move, try to find a position more comfortable than his current, but he didn’t have the strength. 

Strangely, it had been Caspar and Linhardt who did the best they could. 

Caspar tried to get him time to heal, basic necessities of life. Tried to get that for them all. He snuck Linhardt into the prison to heal, although the other man just looked ill.

"I'm so sorry," Caspar had told him, voice betraying his genuine guilt. "The orders come from the Emperor herself, I  _ can't _ disobey."

"That's the worst part of war," Linhardt added. "You can't make your own choices anymore, and atrocities go unchecked."

They hadn’t been down there in... awhile. Just the Death Knight, always the Death Knight. Always pain. Sylvain hoped they weren’t dead. They hadn’t wanted the war anymore than he did. Besides, if Dimitri were to do the same thing, could he honestly say he wouldn't follow? Well, maybe he wouldn't. Felix sure wouldn't.

Felix...

He tried to push the thought away. He didn’t want to think of Felix, not now. Not when he was barely holding on. Didn’t want to face the fact that he’d never see him again. Maybe he was already dead.

Felix had been the one thing to keep his strength up. The one thing that kept him holding on, for all the good it did him.

His brain was getting fuzzier. Whether from pain or fever, he couldn’t tell. It was hard to keep coherent thoughts. 

At that point, all he wanted was for The Death Knight to leave him be. Let him die in relative peace, instead of being tortured until his body gave out. Until he screamed so long his throat turned raw and bled. He already couldn’t breathe without excruciating pain. Besides, it wasn’t like he could tell them anything anymore. Any battle plans he was aware of would already be useless.

Goddess, he just wanted the pain to stop.

* * *

Sylvain was walking through a dark cave. Was it a cave? No. What was it? 

He knew this place, but from where? It was foggy, like a block in his mind restricting his memory.

“Sylvain!” somebody called. He turned, the flowers blowing in the wind. Daisies, his mind supplied. His mother loved Daisies. Miklan had brought her a bouquet when they were children, she’d snapped at him about picking flowers.

He was in a field. The sun was streaming from above. It was peaceful.

A young boy came running to him, Sylvain couldn’t see his face.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the boy said. He knew him.

Sylvain tried to focus on his features, see who he was looking at. His hair is black and long, tied out of the way.

“Where am I?” he asked, still trying to see his face, still trying to think of how this was all so familiar.

“Home.”

The word hit him like a horse. A pile of bricks in his gut.

_ Home. _

It’d been so long since he was home. Why was that? 

The boy was laughing, it was good, Sylvain thought. It’d been so long since he’d laughed like that, carefree, loving. Before he learned to hate the world for all it had done to him, for all it had taken from him.

“Come on Sylvain!” the boy shouted, racing towards the tree line. 

“Wait!” Sylvain called after him. Something is wrong, something about the forset, about this field, about the boy.

What was it? Why did he suddenly feel so scared?

“Wait! Come back!” he starts to chase him. Around him the world morphs, it was raining, pouring upon him. Thunder crashes.

There’s fighting nearby, shouting over the clash of metal. The boy is still laughing, why is he laughing? There’s something wrong, why-

“Sylvain.” The voice came from behind him. It was different.

He didn’t want to turn, didn’t want it to be true. The laughter was getting louder, deafening. He couldn’t think, it hurt.

“Sylvaaain,” the new voice sang, taunting. “Wouldn't want your little friend to get hurt.” 

There’s no time to react before the sound of crushing bones. Abruptly, the laughter stopped. A thud followed. A body hitting the ground.

He turned, already knowing what he’d see.

Miklan stood over a lifeless corpse, a man with black hair. Not the child, that child was long dead. 

His hands held the Lance of Ruin. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the decrepit tower behind them. The tower in which Miklan died. Where Sylvain killed him.

“You’re dead,” he tried to argue, taking a step back. He looked towards the body, could feel tears gathering at his eyes. No, he had to help him, he had to-

He was young again, small and weak. Miklan towered over him, how many times had this exact scenario played out? How many times had he tried to kill him? How many bruises were from his own brother?

“Don’t you understand Sylvain?” Miklan laughed, stepping over the corpse. He wanted to scream, wanted to beg, wanted to crawl to the body of his friend and cry, save him. “I’m you. I’ve always been you.”

“W-What-”

“You took what was supposed to be mine. It's time to take it back.”

He raised the Lance of Ruin, ready to bear down upon him, ready to kill him. Sylvain flinched, holding up his arms in a useless attempt to defend himself.

Lightning flashed, metal hit metal. 

The man - he knew his name, why couldn’t he remember it? - Stood before him, long hair loose from it’s ponytail, his sword raised and blocking.

“Sylvain,” his voice was older, more familiar. There was something in it, some long lost emotion in a voice usually so devoid. “It’s okay, you’re safe. It’ll be okay.”

It was odd, hearing such reassurance from Felix.

He laughed, sitting on the steps by the pond, Felix leaned against the wall next to him. It was always nice to have free time, there was so little of it at the Academy. 

“What’s so funny?” Felix asked, harsh as ever.

“You,” he replied, smiling. The summer breeze blew around them, gently cooling off the heat. “You’re like a cat, can’t let too many people know you care.”

“I don’t care,” Felix snapped, looking away. “This was a waste of time.”

“Wait, Felix,” Sylvain said. “I’m sorry. Please stay? Just for a little while?”

A sigh, “yeah, whatever.”

Sylvain knew what that meant, knew it was Felix’s way of saying “of course”, of saying “all you had to do was ask.”

* * *

The first thing Sylvain felt was pain.

Just brushing the edges of consciousness, the agony enveloped him. Pulling him apart. It was strangling, oppressive. Oh Goddess, everything pulsed with agony.

Vaguely he heard voices, felt somebody holding his hand, but he couldn’t place them over the writhing, black, agony. It’s tendrils pulled at him, dragging back to where he came from. Death? It was possible. Possible that the black abyss creeping into his mind was endless oblivion.

He couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good thing.

“-Sylvain-” he recognized his name, although nothing else that was said. He tried to open his eyes, tried to see the speaker. He couldn’t. The grip on his hand in harder, the sounds being made are more frantic, but he can’t make any of them out. Everything is rushing over him, it’s too much.

Oh Goddess there was so much pain. He couldn’t breathe.

He thought he made a sound, thinks it might have been a name, but he can’t hear passed the pounding in his ears.

Suddenly, everything numbed. 

There was another hand on him, a voice saying soft words. He was overcome with a sense of fogginess, and then blissfully, nothing.

* * *

Whispered words sounded against the darkness, pulling him through the vacant eternity.

Sylvain recognized the words, a prayer from his childhood. His mother taught it to him years ago, long before the war. He still spoke the phrases when he needed them, always turned back to his faith during times of turmoil.

He remembered teaching Felix the words, hoped it would give him the same comfort. He didn’t think it did.

Other sensations began to take form around the words. Footsteps in the distance, humming in the background, the dryness in his throat, the smell of medicinal herbs. The familiar ache of a bruised body, and broken bones, barely starved off by magic. A hand grasping his, desperate. The feeling of fabric and bandages. 

Everything else was fuzzy. Probably the magic. He hated the feeling. It was like he was missing something important, what was it?

“Please,” the voice said, the same that had just finished the prayer. “Please, Goddess.”

He knew the voice. Knew it since childhood. Felix. Why did he sound so upset? He hadn’t heard him like that since Glenn. 

Why was Felix there? He didn’t know where ‘there’ was, or why it was wrong for Felix to be ‘there’, but he knew it was wrong.

He tried to open his eyes, but he was so tired.

It took more effort than he’d ever want to admit, but he somehow managed to squeeze his hand. Squeeze  _ Felix’s _ hand.

“Sylvain?” Felix said, his voice changed in a way Sylvain couldn’t place.

He wanted to open his eyes, wanted to comfort Felix. He couldn’t.

* * *

Sylvain blinked his eyes open. The room (his cell?) was dark, oppressive. 

He tried to move, tried to push himself up. He couldn’t. He was trapped in the dark again, shackled to the walls, unable to move. The Death Knight would come soon, would beat him until he broke. He couldn’t, they needed him to stay quiet, he couldn’t endanger his friends, he’d kill them all.

Panic settled in. He couldn’t  _ feel _ shackles binding him, but he still couldn’t move. Had they done something new to him? Broken all his bones? It felt like broken bones, the ache that had become so familiar over the time of his imprisonment. It was almost a comfort.

“Sylvain?” a voice questioned. He flinched. Was it a guard? A fellow prisoner? He couldn’t tell anymore, couldn’t differentiate between them. Too many had come and gone, died. A hand was on his shoulder. He wanted to scream.

“Please,” the words tore from his throat, raw and hoarse, afraid. Begging only ever made it worse. He closed his eyes, trying to prepare himself. It never helped.

The hand pulled back like he’d burned it. Maybe he had.

Movement next to him, whispers he didn’t try to decipher. The strike of a match. Or perhaps magic? Would they burn him again?

Dim light showed beyond his eyelids. Something was set on the table next to him. Where had the table come from?

“Sylvain,” a different voice said. “Look at me.” It was soft and caring, but stern. It was an order. 

He didn’t want to. Felt like disobeying them just for the satisfaction. It’d been so long since he’d resisted. At one point, he’d tried to be as difficult as possible. They beat it out of him. He did as he was told, if only to keep them happy. Keep them from hurting him again.

A candle had been set on the table, illuminating the dark room.

There was a woman next to him. (Why was he in a bed?) He thought he knew her.

“Shhh. Breathe,” she told him gently.“Its okay, you’re safe Sylvain. Just breathe.” She turned to somebody hovering in the shadows behind her, “Can you bring some of that tea?”A guard probably. Was she his new tormentor? Had the Death Knight given up?

“We have you,” she reassured him again. “You’re safe.”

_ Safe. _ He could have laughed. When was the last time he’d been safe?

“I-I don’t understand,” he said despite himself, his voice shook. Fuck, he was crying. It only made it worse when he cried. “Where am I? Who-” he coughed, throat burning. White mana flowed into him, easing his breathing.

“Just breathe Sylvain, everything will be okay.” She sounded so soft, so sincere. Was she another prisoner? The last one to help him was killed for it. “Just breathe.”

He tried, but he couldn’t. Not when he was expecting them to come any moment. How could she be so calm? 

Her magic continued to trickle into him. It was calming, grounding. Familiar even. In fact, everything about her was familiar. Did he know her? He could feel the panic retreating.

Somebody came up behind her. He flinched. Were they here to hurt him too?

“Thank you,” she told them, before turning back to Sylvain. A mug in her hand, with a paper straw inside. “Drink this, okay? It’ll help with the pain, and you need fluids.”

He didn’t want to, but he did. Better than risking their rage. It tasted familiar. Like willow bark, hemlock, and valerian root. He’d had it before, but not there.

It was... he looked at her, really  _ looked, _ let his brain connect the dots it had yet to do before. “Mercedes?” his voice was so quiet, so full of hope that could easily be crushed. It’d been so long since he’d had hope. 

She smiled, soft and sweet. So like her. “Just rest.”

Sylvain did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I was replying the game. Again.

As promised, they marched on Enbarr four days after Byleth told them the news.

The night before, the decision was made that Sylvain, and the rest of their injured, would remain at Merceus, along with a handful of healers, and a company of soldiers. If for some reason they had to fall back, it would be too dangerous to have severely wounded with them. 

Felix understood. They couldn’t risk distractions, and their healers would be busy with newly injured in the days to follow. That wasn’t to say, however, that he was happy about the decision. 

Before departing, Sylvain had woken up semi lucid a total of once, and even then it was barely so. He had recognized Mercedes, but nothing else about his situation, or the people there. At least they were getting more fluids into him.

The rest of the time, his small bouts of consciousness were marked by pain, and fear. He often didn’t recognize where he was, or who was around him. More than once, he’d  _ flinched _ at Felix’s touch. It took all he had to remind him that Sylvain wasn’t flinching at  _ him _ . He wasn’t scared of  _ him. _ He was confused, seeing a memory that wasn’t there.

Fuck, Felix hoped he wouldn’t turn out like Dimitri had, seeing ghosts that weren’t there.

At least, even in his haze of fever and pain, he never once called him Glenn. Felix couldn’t decide whether or not that was a good thing. Maybe, if Sylvain did think he was Glenn, he’d finally believe he was safe. 

As bad as all the was, the nightmares were worse. For as long as they’d known each other, Sylvain had always been prone to nightmares. Side effect of growing up with Miklan, Felix supposed. He had his own fair share after Duscur, but never like this. Never  _ pleading. _ It made him want to track down every person who ever laid a hand on him, and make them  _ bleed. _

More than once, Sylvain mumbled out Felix’s name. Pleading and thrashing in his blankets, outright whimpering until Felix hushed him, a hand running through his - frankly disgusting - hair, and reassured him that he was there. That they were both safe. That everything was okay.

Being tender was never Felix’s strength. In fact, it was probably his biggest weakness. For years he would have rather taken a sword in the gut than admit how he felt, about anything. But there he was, trying to be a soft as possible, as calming as possible.

What would Sylvain do while he was gone? What if he woke up to no familiar faces? It was likely, and Felix hated the thought. He hated knowing that Sylvain would be scared and alone, with nobody who cared about him waiting to soothe away the terror. Just nameless healers and equally nameless soldiers. Would he believe that he’d been saved? That his peers were marching on Enbarr? What would he think, knowing they left him behind again? 

What if he got worse again? His fever hadn’t broken, although it had gone down to a more manageable level. If it went up again, how long would it take the other healers to notice? If that happened, he could die. If Felix fought in this war, won against Edelgard, only to come back and find his small ray of hope destroyed, he wasn’t sure he could survive it.

Mercedes tried to alleviate his fears. She introduced him to the other healers, and apologized to them when he snapped. Let him watch as they tended to Sylvain, scrutinizing their every move, growling at every pained sound that came from his friend. He still didn’t trust any of them. 

He knew it would be a long recovery. He may not even be able to walk, with how long he spent locked away. May have to relearn to eat and fight, magic could only do so much for incorrectly healed bones regularly, let alone in the hands. That wasn’t even touching on whatever mental trauma he’d have to overcome after three months confinement. 

The things they did to him were unspeakable, and Felix didn’t need that spelled out to know it. Sure, they hadn’t explicitly told him what had happened, but he wasn’t an idiot. He could see it in the wounds left on Sylvain’s body, in the way he flinched and pleaded. Part of Felix was scared that after so much, Sylvain wouldn’t be the same. Maybe he’d be angery (he’d have every right to be), or maybe he’d just give up. The thought of Sylvain, empty and broken, made him nauseous. It was too real of a possibility. 

It didn’t help of course, that Felix’s own rest was plagued by such dreams. Times when he saw Sylvain’s lifeless body at Gronder, clutching at a sword through his abdomen,  _ Felix’s _ sword. Other times he sees him, locked in that cell, so little light it's suffocating. He hears screams that he knows are Sylvains echoing through the dark, begging for Felix to help him, to save him, but he can’t find him, always so lost in the twisting corridors of Fort Merceus.

At least his peers don’t try to force him to his bedroll at night. He leaves to train for a few hours each day, before returning to Sylvain’s side, which seems to sate their concern well enough. He imagines they’ll be more concerned after the coming battle, but they let him have his comfort.

The night before they leave, he stays up talking to Sylvain. He tells him stories of their battles, and makes promises he desperately hopes he keeps. He writes a letter, signs it with his name, and wishes he could seal it with his family crest, just so that if Sylvain wakes up, he’ll know he truly is safe. Ashe saw it as he’s came off watch duty, in the early hours before dawn.

When the Professor came to tell him it’s time to leave, she carried with her a piece of parchment. It’s covered in short notes, each signed by their peers. More proof.

Felix got oddly emotional when he saw it. It’s stupid really, but the idea that everybody would put so much effort into such a small thing meant the world to him. It’s for Sylvain’s comfort, he tried to remind himself, but it helped him too. He hoped it would be enough to calm him, were he to become lucid while they were gone. They left the letters on his bedside, with instructions to let him read them when he wakes, and set off for Enbarr.

It took two days of marching to reach Enbarr, since they decided not to press on and mount the attack during the night. The city was still full of civilians, and he supposed that they were hoping Edelgard would evacuate them. Of course, she didn’t. 

The battle was bloody. They lost an entire battalion when Petra showed up, before Ashe managed to shoot her down. Civilian deaths would be in the hundreds, but Felix couldn’t worry about that.

He saw Dedue take a particularly nasty spell from one of the odd mages, but caught sight of him again, as they advanced towards the throne room. They we covered and blood and sweat by the time they laid eyes on the monster Edelgard had become.

An exterior to match the insides, he supposed.

It was Dimitri who struck her down, the knife he gave her sticking out of his shoulder. He walked away from her corpse, grieving the friend he wished he’d been able to save.

The ensuing celebration was like nothing Felix had ever seen. Joy that hadn’t been felt since before the war. It was too bad he didn’t feel like sticking around to see it.

It was Ingrid who convinces (more like forces) him to stay, for at least the night. 

“You’re exhausted. Riding back now won’t do you any good,” she scolded him when she found him saddling his horse. He ignored her, until she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sylvain is fine Felix. I know you’re eager to get back to him, but please, just rest first. I’m sure a group of us will want to accompany you back, but not tonight.”

Maybe it’s a mark of how truly exhausted he was that he relents. In fact, Felix wasn’t sure he’d felt anything but exhausted in months. Not since Gronder. Maybe not even since before the war, or longer still before that. Maybe, the last time he’d truly felt rested, felt at peace enough  _ to _ rest, was before Glenn died, nine years ago. What a way to spend his youth. 

He didn’t sleep as easily as he should, after such a hard won battle. He’s awake, outside the camp, when Dimitri finds him. 

They don’t speak, instead just sit in silence as they watch soldiers patrol, the occasional drunken reveler wandered past. It isn’t tense, like any many times before. 

“You should rest,” DImitri says, after probably an hour of silence. “Ingrid told me you plan to ride for Merceus in the morning. I hear she hopes to accompany you.”

He grunts a response, too tired to actually communicate, but he knew if he slept, the dreams will find him again. He isn’t sure he could make it another night, waking up to the feeling of Sylvain’s blood on his hands, without knowing he was okay.

“I would as well, if I could,” he sighs, looking up at the sky. “Unfortunately, I must stay here with the Professor, although I imagine we won’t be far behind. I’m sure she wants Rhea back at Garreg Mach, resting within her own sanctuary.” He stands, boots crunching in the dirt. “Do give my well wishes to Sylvain. I’ll write his father when we return to Fhirdiad.”

Felix went to sleep not long after, and for the first time in months, he didn’t dream.

Ingrid was waiting for him the next morning, along with Mercedes. 

They didn’t speak much as they traveled, but they managed to make Fort Merceus by dinner. It always took longer with an army than it did for only a few. 

The soldiers cheered at their arrival, messengers already spreading the news of the war’s end throughout Fodlan. Felix did not envy the Professor or Dimitri, they would both have much to do in the coming months.

It took longer than he would have liked to reach the infirmary, with so many people congratulating him, and celebrating their victory. He had to push through the crowd. Ingrid and Mercedes weren’t far behind him.

The infirmary was busier, after the main army left, many of the more dangerously injured were moved inside, while the rest remained in their camp. Curtains were pulled around the beds to give some semblance of privacy.

Mercedes sought out the healer she had left in charge, while Felix moved desperately to where he’d last seen Sylvain.

Pulling open the curtain, he revealed his old friend.

Sylvain was asleep, although something about it seemed much more natural, even when compared to the last time he’d seen him. An arm rested across his abdomen, giving Felix an easy view of his beautiful, cream skin. No discolouration, other than bruising, to be seen, and his breathing was strong and normal. Shaking, he moved to lean over him, the back of his hand gently caressing the skin of his forehead and cheeks. They weren’t any warmer than they should have been. 

He could have cried with relief.

The letter he’d written laid open on the table next to him, left on top of the one from their classmates. A cold, half drank cup of tea sat next to it. 

Ingrid pulled a chair over, and he thanked her as he sat. She hovered at the end of the bed, watching them. 

Careful, as to not wake him, Felix took his hand in his own. “We did it,” he whispered. “We won.” He didn’t say anything else, just sat and watched him breathe. Strong, healthy breaths, not shaking or wheezing. 

Mercedes joined them a few minutes later, smiling at the sight. Quietly, she said, “He didn’t really wake up until yesterday morning, but apparently he’s been conscious and aware on and off since. Usually between a couple minutes, to fifteen or so.” 

“He’s alright then?” Ingrid asked, just as hushed.

Mercedes smile slipped, if only for a moment. “As well as can be expected.”

Felix frowned, and tried to push away the panic suddenly building in him. “What do you mean, ‘as well as can be expected’? Is he alright, or not?”

She sighed, taking a step forward to brush a strand of hair from Sylvain’s face. “He’s been through a great amount of trauma. It’s normal for some of that to linger, even now that he’s safe.”

He wanted to bite back that of course he knows that, he’s seen soldiers go from fierce warriors, to broken men, in a shockingly few number of battles, but that wasn’t what he was asking. He didn’t get a chance to respond however, before Sylvain stirred. 

A soft groan escaped him, as his face scrunched in a way Felix knew all too well. A mix of pain, and coming back to consciousness. Apparently Mercedes knew it too.

“Sylvain?” she asked softly, crouching down so he could see her easier. 

It took a moment for hazel eyes to blink open, clear of fever and confusion. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Felix had seen in his entire life.

“Hey there,” she said, smiling softly. “How are you feeling?”

He closed his eyes again, cringing as he made a pained noise, his brain obviously still processing that he was awake. A moment later, he looked back to her. “Hurts.” It was groggy and strained.

“May I help you with that?” she asked, waiting for his permission before letting magic spill from her fingertips. He nodded.

It only took a moment, but the response was immediately noticeable. His features relaxed, along with the rest of his body. A relieved sigh escaped him, followed by a pleasant hum. Slowly, he turned his attention away from Mercedes.

He blinked a Felix a few times, before smiling softly. It was easy to see how exhausted he was, even after a week of recovery. 

“Felix,” he said, watching Felix’s face. “‘Knew you’d would come. Always knew.”

He choked back a sob that was suddenly at the back of his throat. Sylvain was alive. Sylvain was alive, and awake, and talking to him. 

“Of course I came, idiot,” he said, without any real heat. A let his other hand - the one not preoccupied holding Sylvain’s - run through his red hair. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

He isn’t sure whether Sylvain heard him or not, since his eyes were already slipping closed again. “Tired,” he muttered, relaxing even further into Felix’s touch.

“Just rest Sylvain,” he says softly. “Just rest. I’m here.”


End file.
